


my love gathers up the countless lights in that sky and sparkles

by moreissuesthanvogue



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: (until the book comes out next month at least), Baze just wants to tend to his flowers, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Chirrut is the Most Extra and i love him, Crushes, Falling In Love, Festivals, First Meetings, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, True Love, can you believe they still haven't met each other 9k words in, in which flowers are a metaphor, it is with great satisfaction that i can say that this fic is, no pacing we die like Yuen Woo-ping, spiritassassin 2017 exchange, spot the Donnie Yen and Jiang Wen movie references, take a shot every time you recognize a meme, the working title of this fic was Senpai Notice Me the Ultimate Edition, they know of each other but they don't actually know each other, what is writing style because i sure don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 14:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10538103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreissuesthanvogue/pseuds/moreissuesthanvogue
Summary: Ah, I dreamed of you, I pined for youI always listened carefully, carefully to that voice I wanted to touchAh, I count the beats of my heart, saying it’s not a dreamMy love gathers up the countless lights in that sky and sparkles-- Kimi ga Iru, Ikimono Gakari





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miss_Carrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_Carrot/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: "A few years into his service, Chirrut Îmwe, the jester extraordinaire and walking comic relief of the Temple of the Whills, finally gets to work alongside the famous, most devoted Guardian, Baze Malbus. On whom he might or might not have a celebrity crush. The meeting... well, it doesn't go as expected."
> 
> I took some liberties, but I think I got the important parts ;v;
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. there are 14 memes in here, plus, like, 2 not-quite memes, so try to spot them to entertain yourself while reading this train wreck of a fic!!

Baze Malbus is twelve years old when he joins the Temple of the Whills. He is barely a teen and angry at the world, at the galaxy at large, for no one really cares about street rats and he has learnt quickly that to stay angry means staying alive.

Desperately feeding the metaphorical flames inside him, to stay alive, awake, fighting, perhaps to stay warm on the cold moon that is Jedha, all feral eyes and snarling teeth. He would have died if the Temple had not taken him in after finding him passed out in a narrow alleyway behind the marketplace, bruised and shivering from the aftermath of a fight.

Later, Baze would sometimes think back on his childhood and think he would have died even if he had not been beaten up, for he is a gentle soul at his core ― he would have destroyed himself from the inside out, burning up like a star. On even fewer occasions he would think that maybe that alternate reality would be preferable to seeing the Empire take  over everything he once held dear.

But at twelve years old, he ends up in the Temple’s medbay, and that, as they say, is history.

――

He wakes up warm for the first time in years, wary of that fact and the voices  murmuring that can be heard outside of his range of vision, he stays as still as he can while appraising his surroundings. He quickly realizes it’s the Temple, however, and relaxes minutely ― he knows the Guardians, knows they are kind to those who do not oppose them.

It seems the forces that be do not want him to rest just yet, though, for as he settles back in the bed a loud voice, juvenile and full of mirth, imperiously demands to be let through.

This is how Baze Malbus hears Chirrut Îmwe’s name for the first time, like many people before him have heard Chirrut’s name: shouted, followed by an emphasized no, accompanied by running footsteps and laughter. He does not meet Chirrut just yet, and will not for meet him for many years to come.

Instead, Baze hears Chirrut’s voice through the stone walls of the Temple, the first person he knows by name in this new chapter of his life, and wonders if death would not have been kinder if all Guardians are like that.

――

Chirrut is twelve, going on thirteen, when he hears of Baze Malbus again. Or rather, it is the first time he hears of Baze Malbus while actually paying attention. It has been a full year since the other boy has joined the Temple, surprising everyone with his diligence and devotion, the single-mindedness with which he completes his tasks to perfection.

It has also been a full year since Chirrut has tried, for the first and last time, to get into the medbay by means of parkour. Incurring healer Kirin’s wrath was not worth the eternal glory he was promised by peers; he’s pretty sure that if he smells medicinal herbs any time again in his next five lifetimes it will be too soon.

Lying on top of one of the higher branches of the cherry blossom tree in one of the Temple’s smaller courtyards, hidden by the leaves, he is slowly dozing off while skipping meditation. It is his favourite spot to escape the Guardians’ fairly rigid plans for a while, and on top of that he gets to look down on people for a change ― not like he can really _look_ , but the sentiment is there.

The flowers are not in full bloom yet, but he can tell that the cold season is over by the way the tree’s Force signature has changed, the dormant aura making place for something that feels more alive, warm. Enveloping himself in the tree’s softly rustling leaves and pleasant atmosphere, he is rudely jolted from his reverie when two voices drift up to his hiding place.

“Did you hear? Baze Malbus got full marks again for completing his assignment with Elder Wentai,” voice number one says excitedly, and Chirrut cracks one eye open, half interested in the conversation, but mostly annoyed at the intruders. Soft footsteps lightly echo on the abandoned Temple stones, becoming slightly louder as they approach Chirrut.

“I know,” the second voice answers, just as excited, “I’m honestly surprised that he managed it, I heard even the older acolytes couldn’t get as far ― everyone knows how harsh Elder Wentai judges even the smallest mistakes!”

In the tree, Chirrut huffs and turns around, determined not to eavesdrop on the two gossiping kids, as it is not a very nice thing to do, and he is not supposed to be here anyway.

“At this rate, I’m sure he’ll be the Temple’s favourite by this year’s end; Brother Chirrut won’t stand a chance against him,” the second voice continues, after which the first one agrees.

At this, Chirrut blinks, debates for a second if it would be a good idea to show himself, and decides that making a grand entrance is definitely worth it, if only for the backtracking the two initiates will do once they see him.

Backflipping from the branch he lands nimbly on the balls of his feet, right in front of the two kids who are now, presumably, staring wide-eyed at Chirrut.

“Did someone mention my name?” Chirrut says, his sunny smile showing probably too many teeth to be seen as entirely friendly. The blossoms dwarrelling down from the tree from his jump gently land on the ground around him; one lands on his head, and he tucks the flower behind his ear, his smile turning a bit more genuine as he does so.

The two kids have recovered from their shock by now, sputtering frantically, and, from the sound of their flapping robes, waving their hands around a lot too while doing so. Quietly amused, Chirrut ignores their apologies and continues, “I bet Baze Malbus,” stressing the name and adding a pause for dramatic effect, “won’t be able to finish his first kata with full marks though.”

Swiping his finger along his nose, he turns his head up high. “Anyway, I have better things to do than stand around and talk with you.” With that, he skips away and scales the courtyard's wall to get to the kitchens faster. He wonders if he can get away with stealing some dumplings, and decides that if he takes Xiaofen with him, the possibility will probably increase.

One week later, rumours start circulating that if someone mentions Chirrut's name three times in front of a mirror, he will appear by dropping down from the ceiling. Chirrut is inordinately pleased by this. The Elders less so.

That same week Baze Malbus gets the second highest score anyone's ever gotten for finishing the first kata. Chirrut is secretly impressed, but reminds everyone in hearing distance that he is still on top of the list, to keep up appearances.

――

At nearly sixteen years old, Baze keeps mostly to himself. Ever since he has joined the Temple, he has learnt to refocus his anger into his devotion to the Force, to the Guardians and their teachings. He is fine with this, prefers the serenity he finds within the Temple walls to the ever-present burning he felt when living on the streets.

It has been three and a half years already since he first arrived in the medbay, bloodied and bruised. In that time has also found out that he has a soft spot for reading, loving the way how he can learn so much from old and new texts alike, fascinated with how the knowledge that is kept in those vast databases are accessible to anyone who asks.

His other love is for gardening, the practice soothing him in a way that is similar to meditation, and yet completely different. He loves that he can create, draw life from the ground up, the precious plants like tiny children to him.

Digging another hole in the soil of the north wing’s garden, he hears footsteps approaching, the click-click-click of the claws hitting stone giving away that it’s Ta’Shika before he even has to look up to see her leisurely walking toward him.

“Elder Wentai was asking for you again in the library, he wondered where his favourite pupil has gone,” she says in lieu of greeting, huffing a laugh when she sees Baze’s ears twitch before he smiles.

“Of course, if you’re not nose-deep in datapads, books and scrolls, there’s only one other place where you can be found,” she continues, then frowns and corrects herself.

“Wait, no, there’s another other place where you can be found, which is in the east wing’s training dojos. I suppose I can see what, or rather, who,” at this, Ta’Shika blows up and deflates her neck frills a tiny bit in quick succession, her species’ way of an eyebrow waggle, “keeps drawing you there, even with the perfectly functioning dojos in the northern wing.”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Baze mutters, shooting her a warning glance before going back to his plants. While it is true that he only ever visits the eastern wing to watch Chirrut Îmwe spar, it is not because of what his friend is implying. Chirrut is, by far, the best fighter the Temple has seen in years; at only fifteen years of age, he has already bested some full-fledged Guardians.

Baze envies the way Chirrut can move, his sparring seeming more like a dance, his blows devastating and quick but as pretty as the sight of flower petals fluttering down, the sounds like a symphony conducted by fists, or staffs, or any weapons he can get his hands on.

Baze envies Chirrut tight control on his body, the way he knows how to manipulate his limbs just so to get the upper hand, or to fool his opponent into thinking they can win while Chirrut is already five steps ahead and counting. He envies Chirrut’s nimble feet, his quick reflexes, the graceful way with which he conducts himself, radiating a quiet self-confidence.

Or, well. Envy is not the right word, for while Baze does want to be able to be in control of his body like Chirrut, he does not begrudge Chirrut anything; he is honestly more in awe of Chirrut’s abilities than anything else.

Puberty has not granted him the same miracle that Chirrut has gotten, instead, he just grows a lot, all gangly limbs and uncoordinated hands, feet, _everything_. His body has not gotten the notice that growing vertically means growing a bit horizontally as well, and thus he goes through life resembling a beanstalk for almost all of his teen years.

Lost in thought, he does not realize he has been staring at the dirt contemplatively for the past few minutes. Ta’Shika’s hiss brings him back, however, and the amused glint in her eyes betray that she has not failed to notice his distraction.

“A credit for your thoughts?”

Baze blinks. “Guardians do not have need for-”

Ta’Shika interrupts him with a snort, neck frills gently flaring up for a second.

“Okay, you don’t want to tell me, which means,” she pauses here, a teasing grin taking over her face, “that you were thinking of eating dirt again, weren’t you? To, ah, what was it? ‘Tell the pH level of the soil, and getting up to get the _actual_ indicator would be like abandoning your kids’?”

“That was one time,” Baze grumbles, “and I did not eat dirt, I only licked it, a little.”

“Whatever you say, flower  boy. I noticed you didn’t deny the second part though.”

He ignores her, reaching for the flower bulbs instead. She hands him one, a tacit agreement that she won’t prod him further on the subject, then plants one herself. They work together in a comfortable silence for a while, planting the small bulbs in Jedha’s cold soil.

They’re fire flowers, known for the resilience and resistance against the cold. When fully in bloom, they are a sight to behold, petals like blue flames ― like Chirrut’s eyes, a small voice in Baze’s head seems to whisper, but he shakes it off.  Their stems are nearly as strong as blue ironwood, but twice as mesmerizing.

While Baze also picked them out for their beauty, it was first and foremost because of  how hard they are to find, for fire flowers only grow in the most uninhabitable places, looking almost precious and delicate in their surroundings although they are anything but. His choice has nothing to do with how well they would match Chirrut’s eyes, and robes, and how much the flower reminds himself of Chirrut.

Ta’Shika is the one to break the silence. Without looking up from planting the bulbs, she casually remarks, “shouldn’t you be going now?”

When Baze just grunts questioningly, she adds, “Brother Chirrut’s sparring match is in half an hour, something about defending his friend’s honor?”

Without missing a beat, Baze says, “Brother Chirrut’s match is tomorrow at noon, before meditation, after lunch.” Patting the earth in front of him, he continues through Ta’Shika’s startled laughing. “Xiaofen got harassed by a few boys, and Chirrut took it upon himself to educate them; he wanted to do it right then, but then thought better of it and decided having an audience would be better.”

“You’re sure,” Ta’Shika says between bouts of giggling, “that you’re not obsessed with him? Like, not even a little bit? Who even _knows_ that much details about acolytes in other wings unless they’re close friends? I’m intimately familiar with the Temple’s gossip mill, and even I didn’t get so many details.”

Baze huffs, planting the last flower bulb in the ground. “It’s not an obsession. It’s a healthy amount of respect and admiration for one’s peer. Brother Chirrut is one of the best at sparring, you can not fault me for observing him so I can better my form as well.”

Getting up, he ignores Ta’Shika’s good-natured eyeroll and her subsequent muttering about him ‘observing that ass, probably’, and lends her a hand so she can get up as well. They keep quietly talking while putting away the gardening tools, but the subject of Chirrut’s match is not brought up again.

――

The next day, Baze observes Chirrut from his usual spot on the dojo’s balcony. He prefers to look from a distance, to see the whole playing field instead of being in the middle of the action.

Chirrut is sitting in the middle of the room, looking surprisingly serene for someone who is about to take on ten opponents. His staff is resting against the wall, another thing Baze did not expect. Fighting multiple people is always best done with a long range weapon, to keep one out of harm’s way and to keep the others at a distance.

Before he can wonder if Chirrut really is in over his head and start worrying about a boy he has never officially met, however, the bell sounds, signalling the start of the match. Chirrut grins, slow and confident, gums showing, and tilts his head.

“I hope you won’t go easy on me just because I’m blind, but given how you treat girls, I guess that’s just too much to ask for.”

He stands up then, which seems to be an unspoken sign for the others to start attacking. Smile widening, Chirrut― does _something_ , Baze isn’t sure what, but Chirrut is now shirtless, his robes wrapped securely around two of his assailants, one more on the ground, writhing in pain. Before anyone can figure out what happened, Chirrut takes down three more, kicking them in quick succession while in the air.

Baze is too distracted by Chirrut’s shirtless state to notice, though. The way his sun-kissed skin seems to shine like gold, illuminated by the high windows of the dojo. Baze watches, spellbound, as Chirrut moves, lightning-quick, his punches accentuating the muscles in his arms. Baze thinks he could write multiple poems about those arms alone.

The match ends as quickly as it starts, a quarter of an hour at most, although Baze feels like it lasted far shorter than even that, still preoccupied by Chirrut’s strength, catching himself thinking of Chirrut lifting him up as easily, as effortlessly, as he beat his opponents today.

As Baze gets up to get to the meditation room in the northern part of the Temple, he catches Chirrut kissing Xiaofen’s hand. The move is innocuous, more meant in jest than anything serious, for Chirrut and Xiaofen are laughing. And yet, Baze can feel something in his chest constricting, especially after he hears Chirrut’s group of friends cheering the two on. He leaves as fast as is proper, then spends the rest of the afternoon in deep meditation.

Later, he finds out that Chirrut sent eight out of the ten boys to the medbay, the other two getting away with bruised egos, and even more literal bruises. He supposes Xiaofen must be a very good friend of Chirrut’s, if not more, if he’s willing to seriously injure fellow acolytes for her, no matter how much they misbehaved.

Baze does not go to Chirrut’s sparring matches for the next few weeks, choosing instead to stay inside the library and study ancient philosophies, or to tend to his flowers, although he does not fully know why he is trying to avoid Chirrut.

――

Seasons pass, or rather, the cold winds on Jedha become slightly less cold, the sting of the chilly air softening a bit, and Chirrut turns sixteen the day the first cherry blossom blooms.

He is sitting next to Lu Ten, the Zeltron boy reading out loud from a holopad, so Chirrut can pretend to pay attention to what he is required to know for Elder Yuuta’s class. In actuality he is more interested in when Xiaofen will be back, knowing she will bring him something interesting to hear about, as opposed to what Jedi code’s origins might or might not have been.

Xioafen comes skipping back the moment Chirrut feels himself getting restless, a spring in her step that can be heard on the Temple’s stone courtyard. He perks up immediately, and Lu Ten laughs, stopping his reading.

“Good morning, you two,” she greets them cheerfully, then plops down in next Chirrut, who greets her back just as brightly with Lu Ten following, although the latter’s greeting is more reserved. “I’ve got two things for you, birthday-boy, which one do you wanna know about first?”

“The one that has to do with birthday-boy’s crush,” Lu Ten says before Chirrut can answer.

Sniffing, Chirrut feigns wiping away tears. “You know me so well, whatever would I do without you?”

“Well, for starters, you wouldn’t know that a certain acolyte is now looking for a very rare, super hard to find, _ancient_ scroll on the origins of different types of Force worship. Specifically how it started on Tython and Ossus, although anything on the subject will be sure to make him happy.”

Looking thoughtful, Chirrut turns to Lu Ten. “Do our usual providers of ancient texts also have these, or do I have to ask around on the holonet like a peasant?”

“I am pretty sure we’ll have to go off-planet for this one, but with a bit of luck our network of black market dealers is big enough that we can get it in time for the Solstice Festival,” Lu Ten says, already looking up contacts on his datapad.

Grinning excitedly, Chirrut plants a kiss on Lu Ten’s forehead, who huffs  good-naturedly, and then tries to give Xiaofen the same treatment. She pushes his face away, laugh ringing out like a bell.

“Stop it, you, you’ll give me cooties and then no girl will ever date me,” she says while giggling, her hand covering half of Chirrut’s face.

“But you saved my life,” Chirrut says, still grinning, his voice muffled by her hand, “I have to show my gratitude somehow!”

“Show it by staying still so I can give you your birthday present,” she says, and laughs harder when Chirrut immediately sits up straight, giving her his undivided attention.

She dumps a heap of cloth on top of his head, and snorts when he makes an undignified sound. Lu Ten absentmindedly tells her off, not looking up from the holopad screen, but there is no real heat behind it.

Getting the cloth off of his head, Chirrut can tell that it’s made out of shimmersilk, the material soft but strong. It is hard to produce, even harder to come by, especially on a backwater moon such as Jedha.

His surprise must be visible on his face, as well as his appreciation, for Xiaofen makes a approving noise.

“Before you ask, yes, it’s translucent,” she says, and is instantly tackled to the ground by Chirrut, who takes Lu Ten with him as well.

“It’s also red,” Lu Ten manages to add to the description, sounding winded from having the wind knocked out of him by Chirrut’s tackle.

“Thank you,” Chirrut breathes, “it’s absolutely _perfect_.”

――

“How do I look?” Chirrut asks, spreading his arms and twirling in front of Lu Ten and Xiaofen, fluttering his eyelashes at them when he’s done.

“Like my cousin twice removed who makes a living on Zeltros seducing hapless tourists,” Lu Ten says, then adds after a considering pause, “except human. And with more abs. Handsomer, as well.”

Chirrut beams, brightly, gums showing. “Excellent, that’s exactly the look I was going for.”

Xiaofen snorts, then remarks, “I guess you look pretty? Can’t say I see the appeal, but I support you and your convoluted ways of trying to grab people’s attention. The red especially adds a nice touch.”

Gasping, Chirrut grabs the left side of his chest, melodramatically pretending to be deeply moved. “Thank you, Xiaofen, I could not have hoped for a higher form of praise. I’m sure that if I can sway even you, Brother Baze will _definitely_ notice me.”

“I don’t think anyone will not have noticed you by the end of the week, Chirrut,” Lu Ten shoots back, his amusement seeping into his voice and making his accent thicker. “You’re, ah, almost naked.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d try to persuade you to try a different approach, but as it stands, I will just sit on the sidelines and watch this trainwreck of a plan happen in front of my eyes,” Xiaofen adds, her voice lilting with fond exasperation. “This is my token protest, just so I have the option to say I told you so in the future.”

Chirrut scoffs, waving away his friend’s comment. “This is a 100% foolproof plan, you’ll see.”

He does not come to regret those words, but it is a near thing.

――

The first day Chirrut spends shirtless, several Elders come up to him, asking him to ‘please put on your robes, acolyte Îmwe’, to which he cheerfully responds that he will once his One True Love finds him. The Elders stop asking him after a while, knowing him to be too stubborn when he puts his mind to it.

Word spreads about Chirrut and how he is waiting for his soulmate to find him, and as such, half the Temple flocks to the east wing. While Chirrut has always known he was popular to a certain degree, the amount of people now vying for his attention are a surprise, although a very pleasant one. He is disappointed when he hears from Lu Ten that Baze Malbus is not one of them, however, and that he has not shown up since Chirrut has started this stunt.

On the fourth day, when Baze still has not appeared to notice him practically waltzing around half naked on top of the northern Temple walls, Chirrut slinks back to his dorm, where he trips over a package that was placed smack in the middle of the room. He’s glad that no one was around to hear his undignified yelp, and is so disgruntled about Baze still not having noticed him, on top of himself not noticing the package, that he angrily shoves it under his bed.

(He forgets about it until weeks later, and when he finally opens the package, he finds a warm coat, made of fine bantha wool, soft to the touch and comfortable to wear. The note that accompanies it simply reads ‘ _Please take better care of yourself, Jedha is very cold._ ’, the small dots and dashes on the flimsiplast carefully pressed; it is not signed, but Chirrut knows it’s from Elder Wentai anyway ― he is wrong, but he will not find that out until years later ― since he is one of the few in the Temple who knows the script.)

On the seventh day, Chirrut lands himself in the medbay by catching a cold that turns into a full-blown fever, leaving him bedridden for a week.

Xiaofen is the first to visit him, her smug ‘I told you so’ not able to hide the worried note in her voice.

Lu Ten comes in fifteen minutes later, sipping a hot beverage. At Xiaofen’s incredulous ‘really’, he just shrugs, the material of his robes rustling a bit, and then takes another sip and leisurely strolls further the room in.

“I hope not wearing robes was worth it, Chirrut,” she says, blowing a lock of hair out of her face.

“No robes,” he slurs in response, still kind of out of it from the fever, “we die like men.”

“Try to die another day, Chirrut,” Lu Ten says, as he gently lays something down on the nightstand next to the bed. “A certain someone, I think his name was Baze Malbus or something, heard of your condition and has sent you flowers. Very rare, very pretty flowers, in fact.”

He then takes another obnoxious sip from his cup, while Chirrut perks up immediately at hearing Baze’s name and regrets it just as quickly, grimacing and settling back into the mattress. Xiaofen lightly thwacks him on the arm, telling him to lie down.

“He also left a card, but I have no idea what it says,” Lu Ten continues, his sentence interspersed with the sound of him sipping, and hands Chirrut the card when he makes grabby hands.

“Oh,” Chirrut breathes, fingerpads tracing the ridges and grooves on the flimsiplast.

Taking a deep breath, Chirrut begins to say, “I lo―”

Quickly, Xiaofen and Lu Ten interrupt him, saying in sync, “yes, you love Baze Malbus, we know, you love Baze Malbus so much, he’s the light of your life, you love him so much, you just love Baze, we _know_ , you love Baze, you fucking love Baze, okay, we know, we get it, YOU LOVE BAZE MALBUS. WE GET IT.”

A stunned silence follows, in which Chirrut has to process whether or not he actually hallucinated his friends ganging up on him or not, before he bursts out laughing, momentarily forgetting the searing pain in his head, and he is joined quickly by the other two.

Once their laughing has died down, however, Chirrut frowns, a contemplative look taking over his features.

“Hey, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t seen me the past few days, do you think I should try it again?”

――

As a matter of fact, Baze _did_ see Chirrut, half-dressed, toned arms and abs and all, the Jedhan sun illuminating his hair like a halo. The red sash was what sealed the deal, and he was so distracted that he walked right into a pillar. No one noticed him doing that though, more preoccupied by the acolyte in the main courtyard of the eastern wing to look up and see Baze tripping over his own feet.

Chirrut was doing stretches, although Baze was sure that most stretches didn’t work like that. A considerable group of admirers was standing around Chirrut, and from his vantage point, Baze could pick out a few familiar faces from the northern wing.

One of them said something to Chirrut, and Baze could see Chirrut smile charmingly, tilting his head, considering, before he took a few steps back, the red material wrapped around his hips accentuating the way his legs move. He then performed a series of increasingly improbable jumps,  and landing in a split like it was no big deal.

Chirrut went on with taking requests to show off his acrobatic skills, while the crowd surrounding him only grew in size. Baze considered joining them, if only for a little while, to see Chirrut up close, maybe even trade a few words with him.

Before he could make up his mind, however, two girls stopped right next to him, to look at Chirrut’s antics as well.

“Apparently Brother Îmwe is waiting for his soulmate to appear,” the brown-haired one said. “Isn’t that romantic?”

“No, no,” the other retorts, sounding both wistful and jealous at once. “He is waiting for his crush, and it isn’t me, so who cares.”

Turning to Baze, the first one asks him, “what do you think, Brother Malbus?”

Staring at the two while desperately trying not to think of what they just said, Baze could only mutter a quick apology, excusing himself, saying he was late to a meeting with Elder Wentai, and that he had to tend to his plants, and, well, he was not very familiar with the eastern wing anyway, see, so he could not possibly know what they were talking about, let alone have an educated opinion on it.

Turning quickly and leaving the two girls to their gossiping, he purposely walked down the nigh empty Temple corridors and staircases, his footsteps echoing every time his boot hit the stone floor.  No matter how fast he walked, though, his thoughts still caught up with him.

So Chirrut was looking for his crush and/or soulmate. Baze was sure that whoever it was, it wasn’t him. Surely Chirrut Îmwe, teenage heartthrob and one of the most favored acolytes of the Temple, would not be interested in him, just a run-of-the-mill acolyte, more interested in plants and old manuscripts than social interaction.

――

The days leading up to the Solstice Festival are spent in quiet anticipation for Chirrut.

Lu Ten had announced a few weeks after Chirrut’s birthday that he had found a supplier; a smuggler who was more than happy to drop off a few ‘ancient, worthless scrolls that the Empire would burn on sight anyway’, which is how Chirrut came to be in the possession of some very precious texts.

Keeping them safely hidden under his bed, next to the notebook with the pressed fireflowers, he tries to tone down his enthusiasm for having found the perfect gift to give to Baze. He channels his restless energy instead into his classes, which leads to the Master Guardians and Elders to all gently take him to the side and ask him if he’s feeling alright, not quite sure what to make of Chirrut being the paragon of virtue all of a sudden.

Chirrut, for his part, just grins brightly, charming his teachers and classmates alike into not asking for more details. It’s all a front, though, of course it is, because this is Chirrut Îmwe, Jester of the Temple of the Whills, known prankster even outside the Temple walls.

While going to all his classes and being a model student did backfire a bit, most of the Masters and Elders bought his act after he failed to miss any classes for two consecutive weeks. This has left him with much more freedom to do as he pleases outside of class, which he has counted on since the beginning.

Sneaking around in the Temple’s storage for festival-related things, his feet taking him to where he can smell the gunpowder and sulfur, he smiles to himself, gleeful about his brilliant plan that he is sure will make Baze notice him once and for all.

Lu Ten and Xiaofen are already there when he arrives at the fireworks section, and they set to work immediately. It takes them nearly two weeks to finish the project, but it gets finished, and that is what matters to Chirrut.

――

The day of the Solstice Festival, Chirrut is nearly vibrating out of his skin from anticipation. He gets up early, helps the last of the festival’s stalls get set up, makes sure everything is running smoothly, as he signed up to do this as part of the Temple’s delegation who helps with the festival’s preparations.

When it starts, he sits back and enjoys the festivities. Walking along the stalls selling different types of food, he makes easy conversation with owners, all  the while waiting for night to fall.

His friends join him a while later, and from that moment on they walk together, exploring the festival grounds more thoroughly. They come across the game booths, and Mizar drags Alcor to the shooting range. The rest of the group follows the Weequay twins, a recent but not unwelcome addition to their little gang, happy to try and win some plushies.

Chirrut is the one to walk away with two giant stuffed toys, a bantha and a lothcat, which he immediately hands over to two nearby kids, smiling at their surprised gasps and sincere thank-you-mister-guardian-sir’s. When the owner of the booth asks him how in the name of the Force he managed to shoot that accurately, Chirrut used the stock response all Guardians used, “All is as the Force wills it, my friend.”

He neglects to tell the booth owner that he knows how the toy blasters are rigged, and that he has played this game since he was six standard years old.

“Don’t you think that was, like, a bit misleading?” Mizar asks him when they’re waiting in line at the next booth.

“I have literally never done anything wrong in my entire life,” Chirrut answers, affronted. “ _Ever_.”

“That’s bullshit, but we still love you, Chirrut,” Xiaofen says without missing a beat, Lu Ten and Alcor cracking up behind her.

The afternoon passes a bit in a blur, with Chirrut winning game after game at all the booths, and giving away his spoils to nearby kids and his friends. At one point he wins a plasteel ring, which he then promptly uses to propose to Alcor, who immediately hides behind her sibling, blushing furiously.

Smacking Chirrut on his head, Xiaofen tells him off for putting this poor kid in this position, because, let’s face it, who wants to hurt their friend’s ego, especially if it’s Chirrut’s, because they all know how fragile his is.

Meanwhile, Lu Ten is off to the side, alternating between taking pictures of his friends, himself, and the festival’s colorful decorations; later, he prints those out, the physical copies given to all four of his friends (they do not survive the fall of the Temple, but the holodisc the pictures are stored on makes it all the way to Yavin IV, where it gets uploaded in the Rebel database ― a precious relic telling only a fraction of the stories of these unsung, forgotten heroes).

Evening falls, the air growing colder with it, but the mood is just as cheerful as it has been all day.

The group is lazily looking through merchandise, still full from the street vendor snacks they just consumed, when they come across a wishing-wall. It’s an old tradition, its origins probably stemming from the same source as the Force worship of the Temple.

Xiaofen and Chirrut are delighted to find it, while the others are mostly just endeared by their friends’ enthusiasm. They all decide to wish for something though, since it is there, and it never hurts to try.

Chirrut is the first one to take a piece of paper, asking Lu Ten to help him write his name and the characters for reciprocated love.

“Of course you’d choose that one, you sap,” Lu Ten says affectionately, guiding Chirrut’s hand that is holding the brush dipped in ink as black as his hair.

Once they’ve all prayed for the Force to grant their wish, Chirrut taking the longest out of all of them despite having finished writing down his wish as the first, they hang their pieces of paper on the little strings hanging from the wall. There have been others there before them, their paper wishes gently rustling in the wind like leaves on a tree. Curious, they go through a few wishes from the names they recognize from the Temple, reading them out loud and comparing them to their own wishes.

“Oh hey, Baze Malbus has been here as well, would you look at that,” Mizar says, and is rewarded with a very eager, very attentive Chirrut appearing right next to him before he’s even finished the sentence.

“What does his say?” Chirrut inquires, trying, and failing, not to sound as eager as he really is. He’s already thinking of several ways to get whatever it is that Baze wishes for, although he has not heard what it is just yet.

“You’re not gonna believe this, but it’s,” and here they stop for a dramatic pause, “ _requited love_.”

Chirrut makes a dying purrgil noise in the back of his throat, clutching Mizar’s arm for support, his head resting against their shoulder, while the rest of the group’s reactions vary from outright laughing at how incredulous it is (Lu Ten) to cooing at Chirrut’s predicament and telling him that he and Baze are obviously meant to be together (Xiaofen).

“You’d think the Temple’s poster boy would wish for wisdom, or inner peace, or if it were something more material, more ancient texts to add to the Temple library, but no,” Mizar continues, their voice rising the longer they talk, showing their utter confusion at this turn of events, “he asks for love.”

“If it helps, I don’t understand either,” Alcor offers, which makes Chirrut repeat the sound again, but louder, and then proclaim his undying love to Baze Malbus, while the rest of the group laughs.

――

Evening shifts into night, and with it, Chirrut’s restlessness comes back full force.

While he has been surreptitiously trying to check if Baze has already arrived all day, he kicks it up a notch or ten when night falls, nagging his friends every other minute if they’ve seen Baze yet. Finally fed up with Chirrut’s constant stream of the same question, Xiaofen buys him a lollipop to temporarily shut him up.

It works for all of five minutes, after which he has finished the lollipop and starts asking again, drawing groans from the rest of the group.

“Hey, um, Chirrut,” Mizar starts, a bit hesitant, while Xiaofen is trying to locate a stall where they sell sweets. “I know that this is a foreign concept to you, but, like, maybe chill?”

Blinking once, Chirrut tilts his head, is opening his mouth to answer when Xiaofen comes back and shoves another lollipop in there instead, and for a second where he hasn’t fully processed what has exactly happened, he stays silent, gently sucking on the sugary-sweet candy; the only sounds surrounding the group for those few moments being the festival’s bustling noises, different languages and dialects meshing with Jedha’s ambient sounds, and Lu Ten taking an obnoxious amount of holopics.

When he has realized what just happened, however, he takes the lollipop out of his mouth, pouting and affecting a hurt expression.

“I came out to have a good time,” he says melodramatically, sniffling a bit to drive the point home that it definitely hasn’t happened, “and I’m honestly feeling do attacked right now.”

Ruffling his hair affectionately, Xiaofen retorts, “we’ll keep attacking you until you stop pining for golden boy, little brother.”

His subsequent outraged sputtering at being called little brother while he is only two days younger sets them off laughing again. They spend the rest of the night looking at and listening to the various  performances being held in the city square, waiting for the fireworks to start.

They also see Baze with a friend walking amongst different stalls, his hair braided for once, flowers tucked in between; Chirrut demands his friends describe it in full detail, content to listen to them talk and not approach Baze just yet.

(“Why not?” Alcor asks, reserved as ever but curiosity taking over for once.

“Because he needs to see my grand declaration of love in the fireworks first before I talk to him,” Chirrut responds easily, a spring in his step now that he knows that the subject of his affections is (still) there, although he never really doubted it.)

It’s nearing midnight when the fireworks show commences, the first one blooming bright in the dark, cloudless night sky, eliciting gasps from the onlookers.

Chirrut is waiting for the grand finale, sitting on top of one of the lower Temple walls, feet dangling off the ledge, staff resting against the wall. His friends are sitting next to him, quietly enjoying the explosions of light and colors, while he plays with the hem of his robes, the intermittent whistling followed by booming a not-quite soothing background noise that grounds him the same way sparring does.

Nudging Chirrut, Lu Ten signals that the fireworks they’ve worked so hard on in the past weeks  are coming up.

Chirrut smiles against a backdrop of blues and pinks and reds, the affronted gasps of the festival attendants fueling his glee even more, as well as the murmuring that picks up from those who know him from the Temple.

Come morning, there will be no evidence left of what was written in the sky, but for now Chirrut is content to let all of Jedha know that he loves Baze Malbus.

――

The day after the Solstice Festival, Baze opens the presents and cards he’s gotten; it’s a long-standing tradition, more a courtesy than an obligation, to send people you respect and admire gifts, although it is always anonymous.

Working through the pile of cards and letters first, of which he still does not understand the reason for getting, he sees that most of them are from fellow acolytes, and some initiates as well. Most tell him that they look up to him, that they admire his focus and drive, and how devoted he is.

Even more add that they have a crush on him, which Baze finds ridiculous, as he has never done anything to be crush-worthy. Those letters go on to describe how his admirers like his ears (it’s always the ears, Baze thinks), how nice he always is, how he is always willing to help, how handsome he is, the way he makes their heart skip and brightens their day just by being in it.

Baze wonders if any of those are from Chirrut, and then promptly shuts down that thought process before it can take root, moving on to the slightly smaller pile of gifts instead.

Opening those takes longer, as most have also enclosed a letter, and he needs time to appreciate the individual gifts as well. One in particular holds his interest for a long time.

It is neatly wrapped, the package itself padded with giant HANDLE CAREFULLY sign on all sides once he has unwrapped it, although it comes with a tiny note that just says ‘ _From your secret admirer ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;)_ ’, written in a barely legible handwriting, hundreds of small drawn hearts surrounding it.

Almost apprehensive about opening it now, he sucks in a breath when he finds out what is inside. Trembling fingers pick up the scrolls, hold them in the light to be inspected, almost as if to make sure that they’re real, even though Baze could already tell from the first glimpse he’d gotten that the scrolls are legitimate.

Gently putting them back in the box, he reluctantly moves on to the rest of his gifts, telling himself that he will read the scrolls later, and then gift them to the Temple library.

He is almost done with unwrapping all the presents when Ta’Shika kicks down his door, making him nearly drop the scarf he was holding.

“Baze, holy fuck,” she says, ignoring the glare he shoots her way. “I know you went to bed early yesterday, because, let’s face it, you’re the textbook definition of goody two-shoes, but _please_ tell me you caught the fireworks finale anyway.”

Staring at his friend, he slowly deadpans, “I caught the fireworks anyway.”

“Seriously?”

“No, of course not. I was sleeping because I had to wake up early for morning meditation, and then I went straight back to my quarters to look at what I’ve gotten for the Solstice festival, as I couldn’t look yesterday, because someone dragged me to the festival,” Baze says, the fond tone contrasting with his sharp words.

As an afterthought, he adds, “you’re going to have to fix that door, by the way.”

Waving away his words, Ta’Shika walks over to where he’s sitting on the ground and plops down next to him, heedless of the paper wrappings she crushes in the process.

“Listen, last night, after you went to bed, yeah? They held the fireworks show, kind of like always, a bit less grand than a few years back, but that’s not the point. The point,” she says, looking him in the eyes, making sure that he is still listening, “is that the final fireworks went up, the grand finale, the climax of all these previous pretty, pretty explosions, and lo and behold, spelled out in the sky is fucking ‘ _Chirrut Îmwe ♡ Baze Malbus_ ’. Do you see what I’m seeing here?”

“... Someone thought it was funny to tamper with the fireworks and wanted to humiliate me by making my, ah, infatuation to Chirrut known?” Baze guesses, already thinking up five different ways to avoid everyone who he knows was at the Festival and stayed until after the fireworks were done.

“No, you dummy,” Ta’Shika admonishes him, thwacking him on his head, her scales making it more painful than she probably intended. “A reliable source has told me that Chirrut was the one that meddled with the fireworks. And with reliable source I mean Chirrut himself, because that boy does not know how to keep his mouth shut.”

“So you mean to say that Chirrut knows about my feelings toward him and used that information to make fun of me?” Baze asks, frowning, still not sure where Ta’Shika is going with this.

Grabbing both his shoulders, neck frills flaring up a bit, Ta’Shika says, carefully enunciating each syllable, “Baze. I know this a hard concept to grasp for you, but maybe, just maybe, and with that I mean that the possibility is more certain than you never missing meditation, Chirrut has feelings for you too.”

“Okay,” Baze says, nodding a tiny bit.

“Okay?” Ta’Shika repeats, sounding doubtful.

“That sounds fake, but okay,” Baze continues, and Ta’Shika throws her claws in the air, screaming.

――

Baze is eighteen when he is granted the title of Guardian. He is not the youngest to earn it, but he is young enough that it is still considered an impressive feat.

Ta’Shika finds him in the northern wing’s gardens after the ceremony, tending to his flowers, softly talking to them. Their kind are late bloomers, somehow preferring the cold frost that comes near the end of the year and right after for Jedha. They’re almost in full bloom, the bright colors contrasting with the monotone, sand-colored Temple walls.

“So how’s it feel to be a Guardian,” she asks, leaning against a pillar and watching Baze work.

“The robes are itchier,” he replies, getting up with a huff. “Why are you here, anyway? Isn’t there supposed to be a celebration going on?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Guardian Malbus,” she retorts, “especially since the celebration is in your honor.”

“That’s fair,” he says, putting away the watering can.

Sighing, although it sounds more like a hiss, Ta’Shika gives in and pushes herself away from the pillar. Walking with purposeful strides to where Baze is now tying several flowers together into a small bouquet, she gently places her claw on his shoulder.

“We need to talk.”

“Is this the part where you tell me you’re pregnant, and I’m the father?” Baze asks, not looking up from the flowers in his hands.

“I wish,” Ta’Shika replies, exasperated, trying and failing to draw Baze’s attention away from the bouquet he’s forming.

“Okay so you’re breaking up with me, got it.”

“Baze, I swear to the Force, can you not, for one second, be a stubborn bantha about this,” she pleads, frustration thick on her tongue, voice more a growl than spoken words. “We’ve had this conversation before, and it’s getting to the point where I’d pull out my hair if I had any.”

Finally looking up, Baze says, “I think it’s a good thing that you don’t have any hair, then.”

Another hiss, this time definitely more hostile than the first, though. “That’s not what I’m trying to say here, and we both know it. Baze, it’s been years, just confess to Chirrut and damn the consequences.”

“I’m fine with the way things are right now,” Baze says, tone even, then looks away when Ta’Shika rumbles deep in her throat, neck frills flaring up until they’re almost fully expanded, disagreeing without having to say anything. “We haven’t even met anyway, he’ll think I’m just some groupie.”

“Then you go talk to him!” She grabs both his shoulders and shakes him a little, trying to convey how serious she is.

“Get to know him, become friends, whatever, just don’t keep on doing this,” she says, gesturing at the flowers.

“You keep sending him flowers ‘anonymously’,” she goes on, stressing the last word so much that the quotation marks she makes with her claws are superfluous thrice over, “through me, or some other poor soul that you charmed or blinded with your status as the most devoted of us all, while everyone and their mother in the Temple, probably on all of Jedha, knows it’s from you.”

Baze is silent for a few moments, then says, hesitantly, “yeah, so about that… Would you mind doing me a favor?”

Taking a deep breath, the pupils in her yellow eyes nearly narrowed to slits, Ta’Shika says, voice dripping honey-sweet, “of course not, Baze, we’re friends after all.”

“Okay, neat,” Baze says, pushing the flowers in her claws. “Please deliver these to Chirrut’s room.”

He smiles sheepishly at her, scratching the back of his head, while she alternates between staring at the bouquet in her hands and the Guardian in front of her.

“I promise I will try to talk to him in the near future?” Baze offers, knowing that it is an empty promise the second it leaves his mouth.

They have had this argument before, increasingly frequent in the past year, and every time Baze weasels out of it, citing studies, or rites of passage, or any other kind of Temple-related excuse. Ta’Shika humors him because she knows how much his faith means to him, but now that he has reached guardianship, he has no more excuses to hide behind.

Ta’Shika regards him for a while, gaze scrutinizing, before she abruptly turns around, throwing a goodbye over her shoulder, and Baze feels kind of bad that he knows that she will keep her end of the deal, getting the flowers safely to Chirrut’s room.

Two weeks later, the flowers are in full bloom.

Two weeks later, Baze also hears from Elder Wentai that he has been assigned to work alongside Guardian Îmwe on the upcoming Lantern Festival, which is in two months’ time. Baze excuses himself as quickly as is polite after hearing this, and spends the rest of the week agonizing over what he is going to do when he’ll meet Chirrut.

――

Chirrut is sitting at the base of the cherry blossom tree, having long ago outgrown the need to lie on the branches. He’s half in Lu Ten’s lap, head resting against Lu Ten’s shoulder, while bemoaning his current predicament. Xiaofen and Alcor are away on a date, and Mizar is helping Healer Kirin with medbay-related things that Chirrut does not need to know the details of, which has left Lu Ten to keep Chirrut occupied while in one of his more melodramatic moods.

“I’m going to die,” Chirrut says, and the whiny note in his voice draws a snort from Lu Ten’s otherwise still position. Chirrut swats his arm as punishment, which elicits another snort from Lu Ten, but no other reaction.

“Lu Ten, I’m serious,” Chirrut says, pouting, to which Lu Ten reacts by ruffling Chirrut’s hair.

“Listen, when I’m dead, you won’t be laughing anymore,” Chirrut continues, pushing away Lu Ten’s hand. “You’ll just wonder where your enigmatic best friend has gone, and it’ll be too late by then.”

Sighing, Lu Ten finally gives up on trying to read whatever it was that was on his holopad, and decides to give Chirrut his undivided attention.

“You won’t die, Chirrut,” he says, fond exasperation coloring his voice. “You’re eighteen, which statistically means you have a―”

Chirrut interrupts him by groaning, says, “I mean I’m going to die because of love. I’ve told you that, right? How very much in love I am with Baze Malbus, the person I’m going to be on duty with?”

“You might have mentioned that once or twice, yes. On top of, like, broadcasting your feelings for him every waking hour. Sleeping as well, might I add.”

When Chirrut frowns, Lu Ten adds, “Zeltron, remember?”

“Right. Be that as it may, my point of dying when I meet him still stands. His handsome face alone will probably devastate me.”

Huffing a laugh, Lu Ten pats Chirrut’s face. “You’re adorable, Chirrut. You’ve never even seen his face, and it’s not like you can now.”

“Haven’t you heard? Love,” Chirrut retorts, poking Lu Ten’s side to make him stop, “is blind.”

Now it’s Lu Ten’s turn to groan, for while he has grown used to Chirrut’s antics, the puns are still awful. Chirrut, in contrast, is grinning, terribly pleased with himself.

They bicker back and forth like that for a while more, Lu Ten finally convincing Chirrut that he is not going to die, no matter how enamored he is with Baze Malbus, adding that if he does die, Xiaofen will probably drag him back from his place in the Force to attend her wedding with Alcor anyway.

Sitting underneath the tree, leaf-filtered light forming mosaics on their skin, they continue talking about what a good match Xiaofen and Alcor are, surrounded by the fragrant smell of cherry blossoms that have bloomed early this year.

――

As unchanging as Jedha has always been to Chirrut, he can’t help but notice that the day the Lantern Festival takes place, it seems different, somehow, the air charged with something he does not know how to describe. Of course, it could just be his imagination, his anxiety bleeding over into his perception of otherwise rather mundane events.

Walking along the Temple walls, one hand tracing the rough stone, the other holding his trusty staff, he waits until it is dawn, knowing the changing of guards at the watch towers will alert him. For now, he enjoys the quiet, tries lose his restless energy by walking on those familiar stone paths.

The first rays of sunshine wake up the Temple as well, and Chirrut takes that as his cue to head to the main courtyard, his footsteps not the only ones reverberating in the corridors anymore.

He is the first one to arrive, which was his intention from the start, but he still feels proud to have been able to do so, his track record with showing up on time almost on par with how many times he just skipped class altogether.

The others slowly trickle in one by one, a few running a minute or two late, but by the time Chirrut is certain that everyone should be there, Baze is still nowhere to be found. For some reason no one around him finds this a strange phenomenon, however, and Chirrut stands there in confused silence until he is told where to go to help oversee the preparations for the festival, which is when he also hears that Baze is already there.

Foolish, Chirrut thinks, to expect Baze to be where the rest of the Guardians are as well. He should’ve known that Baze, golden boy and pride of the Temple, would already be where he was expected.

Strapping his staff safely on his back, he scales the Temple walls, then takes a shortcut by running on rooftops, and jumping from building to building, his echobox rhythmically thumping against his side. Nearing his destination, he slows down, then stumbles, trips, falls down from a two story high building when he hears Baze’s laugh.

Letting out a high pitched yelping noise, Chirrut is reminded of the first time he’s heard Baze’s laugh at the tender age of twelve, how he fell in love with it immediately, and also how he tripped over his own two feet while trying to sneak back from the kitchen, nearly giving away his position; Xiaofen has never let him live it down, and sometimes still brings it up just to get a rise out of him.

Landing in an undignified heap, Chirrut quickly gets up, dusting himself off as best as he can, quietly hoping that Baze has not just seen him fail spectacularly at being a human being.

“Guardian Îmwe, how nice of you to join us,” a gravelly voice says, haltingly, obviously belonging to Baze, as if unsure if this is a normal occurrence and if so, if he should comment on it anyway.

Chirrut can feel his heart soar for a quick second because finally, _finally_ , Baze has noticed him, before it comes crashing down, taking his hopes for making a good impression with it.

“Hah, I guess I just literally fell for you, huh?” Chirrut says, turning to where Baze is standing, nervously running a hand through his hair. He then realizes what he’s just said, and quickly backtracks.

“Well, I- I mean, I just fell down. In front of you. Yeah.” He laughs nervously, his voice pitched an octave higher by the end.

Baze stays silent, probably looking mildly unimpressed at what a mess  Chirrut is, and Chirrut mentally kicks himself for fucking this up even more, making a plan of action in his head so as to avoid embarrassing himself further.

Step one: Do not say anything, and if you do have to say something, for the love of the Force, don’t use pick up lines.

Sticking out his hand, back ramrod straight, Chirrut says in one breath, “I’m sorry, I haven’t properly introduced myself, have I? I’m Chirrut Îmwe, Guardian of the Temple of the Whills, at your service! And you’re Guardian Baze Malbus, I’ve heard so much about you ― all of it good, mind ― and I look forward to working with you!! I’m pretty sure you’re, like, an angel or something. Except without wings.”

Failed step one.

Chirrut vows to never, ever talk again for as long as he lives, while Baze snorts and grasps his hand, shaking it before letting go.

“So a person?” Baze asks, and Chirrut thinks he detects a hint of amusement in Baze’s voice, as well as befuddlement, although he is far more preoccupied by the fact that Baze’s hand just touched his, his mind blanking on everything else.

He is saved from answering, thankfully, by an acolyte who comes running up to them, asking for advice about how to set up the stage, and Baze goes with her to see what he can do.

With Baze suitably distracted, Chirrut takes a moment to mentally regroup, telling himself to get his act together. There are other times where he can admire how level-headed Baze is, how cool and collected Baze always seems; right now he is on duty, and as such, will have to act the part.

Nodding to himself, he resolutely steps forward, and starts helping with the preparations for the Lantern Festival, directing acolytes and some of the older initiates. He and Baze make a surprisingly good team once they’ve gotten over the initial awkward first meeting stage, and with the addition of others there, Chirrut has less trouble talking, his inability to speak coherently apparently only happening when Baze directs his attention solely to him.

He loosens up the more time they spend together, however, and is almost back to being his silver-tongued self by the time they take a break. They’re sitting at a small distance from the group of teens they were assigned to work with, on top of the now finished stage, more than happy to spend some time  alone with each other, talking about their interests.

The leftover flowers that were used to decorate the stage are in a basket next to them, and Baze is busy weaving them together into a flower crown, while Chirrut is talking about the time he kicked another acolyte’s ass while sitting down.

“Well, I mean, technically sitting. I didn’t get up and spar with him while on my feet, is what I’m trying to say,” Chirrut recounts, and Baze hums, sounding impressed.

He puts the now-finished flower crown on top of Chirrut’s head, and Chirrut grins, gums showing.

“Do you think I would make a pretty flower boy?” Chirrut asks jokingly, fluttering his eyelashes. “And please, be honest with me, my ego can take it; I just want to know if my plan B will work out if for whatever reason I can’t stay a Guardian until I die.”

“You- you look fine,” Baze answers after a sudden coughing fit, sounding a bit choked off for reasons Chirrut does not understand.

Frowning, Chirrut asks if Baze is okay, worried about the other’s health.

“I’m fine,” Baze says, picking up another flower from the basket to start making a new flower crown.

“Really,” he adds, when Chirrut opens his mouth to ask if he’s sure.

“Yeah, listen to your boyfriend, pretty monk,” a mocking voice suddenly chimed in, a chorus of scornful laughter following.

Playing along, Chirrut pretends to preen, his right hand slowly inching towards his staff. “You really think I’m pretty? That’s so generous of you, stranger. May the Force of others be with you.”

“What? No, it was supposed to be an insult, you thick-headed blind boy,” the owner of the mysterious voice manages to answer after sputtering for a while, the others with him snickering at Chirrut’s supposed stupidity.

Frowning and tilting his head, Chirrut affects a confused tone, his hand firmly wrapped around his staff by now.

“I know what pretty means,” he says, ignoring the muttered uttering of his name, “and I know what insult means. But those two words together? I don’t understand.”

Taking a deep breath and releasing it, the person who has been bothering them for the past few moments sneers, “it means that you’re a―”

The person never gets to finish his sentence, as at the same time Baze tells Chirrut to hold his flower, and then promptly decks the harasser in the face, his gang of followers quickly running away after seeing their leader felled with one punch.

Chirrut, meanwhile, is unsure if he’s hallucinating or if Baze really just punched a guy to defend his honor. Either way, he can’t help but swoon, never having had anyone stand up for him before; his fighting prowess is well-known throughout the Temple, after all, and his friends know he can handle himself.

――

Baze is nineteen years old when he meets Chirrut Îmwe for the first time.

Baze is nineteen years old when he falls in love with Chirrut Îmwe, not for the first time, but for the second time, and the third, and the fourth, and countless more times, so many times that he has stopped counting.

He falls in love with Chirrut’s smile, blindingly bright, beatific in the way that it is so easily given, shining brighter than the sun and all the stars in the galaxy combined.

He falls in love with the way Chirrut talks, a constant stream of words falling from his lips like a waterfall, his voice a soothing sound Baze is content to listen to for the rest of his life.

He falls in love with Chirrut’s sightless eyes, the milky blue hiding a depth of perception and quick wit to those who do not seek it, and Baze feels lost in them, like a bud waiting for a warmer season; although he feels that if he were actually a flower, he would not mind being taken care of by Chirrut.

Baze falls in love with Chirrut all over again, the flaws that he didn’t know Chirrut had only endearing him more to Baze. Meeting Chirrut is like an epiphany to Baze, like the sky just after it’s rained, he feels as if his heart’s cleared up, and he quietly thanks the Force for making their paths cross.

He wonders for what span their futures will be entwined, hopes that the love that was born on this cold day will last forever, and be remembered in the stars.

――

When the festival starts in the evening, he and Chirrut stay together, an unspoken agreement to keep each other company for the day, and hopefully for longer than that as well.

They walk together along various stalls, their shoulders lined up, sometimes brushing, laughing together about nothing in particular. With the early setting sun dyeing the city in shades of orange, Chirrut seems almost ethereal in its light, and Baze catches himself staring at the other Guardian more times than he can count. Chirrut does not seem to notice his distraction, though, or if he does, he doesn’t comment on it.

The time they spend together moving fast, almost too fast for Baze, he tries to hold on to the memories he is making on he’s making right now, unsure if Chirrut enjoys his company as much as he is enjoying Chirrut’s.

They share a meal sitting on the roadside, listening to the distant sound of the orchestra, the whistling sounds and strings reverberating  through the sprawling streets of NiJedha, while the last rays of sunlight illuminate the rooftops of the buildings around them.

As if sensing the darkness of the night approaching, Chirrut remarks, almost too casually, “the lanterns will be lit soon.”

“Yes,” Baze confirms, unsure where Chirrut is going, but willing to hear him out.

“We should get one,” Chirrut says, staring at Baze, but a little to the left.

Blinking, not certain if he actually heard Chirrut’s words correctly, it takes him a while to realize that Chirrut is actually serious, and Baze is lost for words once more.

Shifting, Chirrut looks away, features suddenly nervous. “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have―”

“I’d love to,” Baze breathes, gently interrupting Chirrut, whose face blanks for a split second before he beams, a smile so genuine Baze wants to cherish it forever, lock it up so nothing bad can ever happen to it, and he knows he’s made the right choice.

Getting up, they slowly walk back to the center, the Temple like a homing beacon off in the distance. They walk side by side, the backs of their hands touch every other step, and Baze’s heart flutters every time it happens.

Their long shadows quietly kiss in the ever-changing sands of Jedha, but neither notice, more preoccupied by trying not to reach out to the other while desperately wanting to.

Eventually, the whole sky slowly fills with stars; they wait for it, making their way to the Temple gates where lanterns are given away.

The festival is lively and overflowing with people now, most coming out only after it’s become dark. Baze and Chirrut weave through the crowd that is half made up of little children running back and forth, carrying paper lanterns.

When they ask for just one lantern, the Elder who is handing out the lanterns gives Baze a knowing look, but does not comment. At Chirrut’s insistence, they light it up inside the Temple, in one of the smaller courtyards where Baze has never been before. There is a cherry blossom tree in the middle, and he now realizes that that must be the Force-sensitive tree that the Temple has harbored for hundreds of years.

A light breeze makes the flame inside the lantern flicker, and for a second Baze thinks that this was a bad idea after all, but it stabilizes, and shines brighter than the other lanterns he’s seen in city.

As if sensing his troubled thoughts, Chirrut says softly, “Elder Yuuta gave us one of the strongest shining lanterns, so don’t worry about the flame going out.”

Then he frowns, looking conflicted. “I should not have said that.”

Baze huffs a laugh, ears twitching. He finds Chirrut’s confession rather endearing, especially considering the implications behind it; as lore would have it, the brightest lanterns were symbolic of good luck and hope.

Gathering his courage by taking a deep breath, he lets it all out when a sudden whistling sound, followed by a loud boom can be heard. Looking up at the suddenly rising transient fireworks, the colors appearing in the sky like blooming flowers, Baze steals a glance at Chirrut’s face, which is turned up, as if he, too, can see the fireworks appearing in the night sky.

Gathering up the kaleidoscope of colors and lights reflected in Chirrut’s eyes, Baze tries to imprint this moment in his memories forever, and falls in love with Chirrut a little more.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in 6 years and this ship is what dragged me back, so I'd like to thank Rogue One for destroying whatever social life I had left lmao, this was supposed to be a short and fluffy 1.2k of fumbling Guardians, and yet.
> 
> Also, if anyone can spot all the Ikimono Gakari and supercell references, I will love you forever.
> 
>  
> 
> I'd also like to thank the Ragethirst crew for always supporting my whiny ass through the process of writing this, and cheering me on when I was certain I was going to Die, staying in the shame pot for all of eternity together with Dream.


End file.
